


Hands and Bronze

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hand Kink, Jewelry, M/M, necklace during sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's face was always the hardest to crack. John was learning, slowly, to read the map of his cheek, to trace the slightest shift in his lips that was invisible to bystanders, to note the faintest quiver in his eyelashes when he stared too long at John. He was learning.  But he was also learning that Sherlock's face was not necessarily the easiest place to read his emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands and Bronze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/gifts).



Sherlock's face was always the hardest to crack. John was learning, slowly, to read the map of his cheek, to trace the slightest shift in his lips that was invisible to bystanders, to note the faintest quiver in his eyelashes when he stared too long at John. He was learning.

But he was also learning that Sherlock's face was not necessarily the easiest place to read his emotions. Sherlock was always telling him to be observant, be observant, stop looking and start _seeing_. So John was observing. It was his hands that gave him away. It was always his hands.

When they kissed, his hands were firm, grasping onto John's shoulders and biceps, grip strong, almost too tight. Almost a little disbelieving, almost keeping him there, holding on. But the longer John stayed, the harder he gave back as much as he got, the more Sherlock allowed his hands to move. When John raked his fingers through Sherlock's hair, that ridiculous, _Sherlock_ hair, and pulled him closer, he dragged a groan out of Sherlock that made him tighten his own grip in response, tangling his fingers up.

He'd learned that when he kissed Sherlock's collarbone, just so, Sherlock's hands would finally start exploring. Long, deft fingers, pale as the rest of him, but slender, pianist's fingers for a man that would never once sit down at a keyboard. His hands moved as quickly as his mind did, slithering across John's chest, John's arms, John's waist and hips and oh God, his hands. His shirt buttons were gone before he even knew what happened, and then the chill of Sherlock's fingers was spreading across his stomach. John shuddered beneath them, kissing and biting at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

But when he pushed the shirt up, over, past the edges of John’s shoulders and shoved it down his arms with pure disregard for what happened to be John's favorite shirt, thank you very much, he always paused just a moment. John waited, ribs rising and falling with stuttering breaths, while Sherlock _observed_ him.

His bare chest, damp with perspiration. The tiny flecks of white scar tissue by his left nipple from the night Sherlock took his time finding where John had been taken to. The bruise above his hip from last Tuesday, when Sherlock had filled the main room with antique furniture sometime during the night for one of his experiments and miraculously failed to tell him before John went strolling into them in the dark.

The skinny, cheap ball chain necklace that hung long, well past his clavicle, to rest between his pectoral muscles. The old bullet cartridge, pierced through with a standard-issue service knife, strung on it. Its dim, bronze sheen was dingy along the crevices and cracks, but shone a little brighter along its surface, polished smooth from the constant wear of rubbing against his chest and shirt. It shifted slightly against his skin every time he took a breath.

Sherlock's face was difficult to read whenever he paused to look at the necklace, but his hands were still there. He allowed his fingers to brush against the warm metal, to splay against John's chest.

That was all it took to spark John's hands into action. He dug his way through Sherlock's coat, that silly scarf, that same shirt that he seemed to have twenty of. He worked at Sherlock's belt buckle, kissing lines down his throat, and tugged them down backwards onto the bed.

And when they pressed together, losing track of where pale began and scars ended, the cartridge necklace dangled between them, dancing across their chests, pushed hard between their sternums. It left bruises when they moved too strongly, little purple ovals across their chests as they cried out and gasped for air. When they slowed and slumped down together on damp sheets, Sherlock's hands finally stilled, tangled up in the chain between them.  



End file.
